


your body's poetry (speak to me)

by singsongsung



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, F/F, Twyla Sands' Freckles, adventures at youth america grand prix, baby ballerinas in the corps de ballet, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:06:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/pseuds/singsongsung
Summary: Ballet has been at the center of Alexis’ life since she was three years old, the first time she saw New York City Ballet perform The Nutcracker. She pulled on her mother’s sleeve, much to Moira’s displeasure, pointed at the stage, and said, “Me!” It was the very first time she felt like her mother saw her. That feeling was intoxicating enough that she couldn’t help but chase it.She’s seen some of the world's most celebrated ballerinas perform. But she’s never seen anyone dance like this girl, whose name she doesn’t know. The stage lights turn her auburn hair burning red. Her pirouettes are perfectly landed; there’s no struggle at all in the way her leg lifts behind her in attitude to tap against the tambourine she holds above her head. As she flits across the stage, her tambourine extended toward the judges like an irresistible invitation, there is something real in her smile, something seductive in her eyes.Alexis forgets to breathe.Ballet AU.
Relationships: Alexis Rose & David Rose, Alexis Rose/Twyla Sands
Comments: 42
Kudos: 80
Collections: Schitt’s Creek Sports Fest





	your body's poetry (speak to me)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCSportsFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSportsFest) collection. 



> Written for the "Miscellaneous Sports" section of Sports Fest, with thanks to doubleL27, ships_to_sail, and RhetoricalQuestions for organizing such a lovely event!
> 
> There are not enough words to adequately express thanks to sonlali for her priceless beta-reading services. Infinite gratitude to you, friend! This probably would've turned into a tumbleweed without your encouragement. 
> 
> Title from Sia's "Move Your Body."

_if you believe in magic, come along with me_  
_we’ll dance until morning, til there’s just you and me_  
_and maybe, if the music is right_  
_i’ll meet you tomorrow, sorta late at night_  
_and we’ll go dancing, baby, then you’ll see_  
_how the magic’s in the music and the music’s in me_  
\- the lovin’ spoonful, “do you believe in magic?”

The embroidery, loops of gold and cornflower blue, is rough beneath Alexis’ fingers in a way that grounds her, that coaxes the beating of her heart out of a frantic gallop and into a steady thrum as she smoothes her hands over her tutu compulsively.

The latest soloist leaves the stage to the sound of applause. One more act, and then they’re up. Her feet shift beneath her, taking turns rolling through demi-point and up onto the boxes of her pointe shoes, keeping her muscles warm and ready. She doesn’t know where Sebastien is, but he’ll show up on time - he always does.

The act before theirs is another soloist, who takes the stage with light footsteps and the slightest jangle of her tambourine. Alexis recognizes her. It’s the girl Klair was whispering about during on-stage practice: _she came out of, like,_ nowhere, _getting first place and, like, every scholarship, from some school that nobody’s even_ heard _of, in some Canadian town with an ugly name. Like, what the fuck, right?_

If the girl knew people were gossiping about her, she hadn’t shown it, but it wasn’t because she had one of the closed-off, up-tilted faces Alexis is used to seeing at auditions and competitions on serious, snobby girls who pretend their stretching routines aren’t carefully designed to show off their flexibility and hyperextensions. Rather, the girl who came from nowhere had an open face - it was only her eyes that were lost somewhere else. As they all left the stage, warmed up to perform, she smiled over at Alexis, a beaming smile that appeared completely earnest, and chirped, “Merde!” like they weren’t vying for the exact same prize.

“Hey, chérie,” Sebastien’s voice says lowly by her ear. Alexis puts space between them instinctively, frowning and touching the golden crown aggressively pinned into her hair around her bun, like his presence alone could have set it off-kilter.

“We’re _next_ ,” she hisses at him as the sound of Pugni’s music fills the auditorium.

“And I’m here, aren’t I?” he says, trying to set his hand on her hip. She smacks it away and pointedly glues her eyes to the girl from nowhere, who is lowering her leg from a high extension into retiré with impressive control.

Ballet has been at the center of Alexis’ life since she was three years old, the first time she saw New York City Ballet perform The Nutcracker. She pulled on her mother’s sleeve, much to Moira’s displeasure, pointed at the stage, and said, “Me!” It was the very first time she felt like her mother saw her. That feeling was intoxicating enough that she couldn’t help but chase it.

She’s seen the Royal Ballet in London, the Paris Opera Ballet, La Scalla Theatre Ballet in Milan. She’s a loyal disciple of American Ballet Theatre, Pacific Northwest, Alvin Ailey, Joffrey Ballet. She convinced her parents to buy season tickets to the National Ballet of Canada. She’s taken classes from Misty Copeland and Julie Kent and Michaela DePrince and Suzanne Farrell.

But she’s never seen anyone dance like this girl, whose name she doesn’t know. The stage lights turn her auburn hair burning red. Her pirouettes are perfectly landed; there’s no struggle at all in the way her leg lifts behind her in attitude to tap against the tambourine she holds above her head. As she flits across the stage, her tambourine extended toward the judges like an irresistible invitation, there is something real in her smile, something seductive in her eyes.

Alexis forgets to breathe.

Her pas de deux with Sebastien goes well. After so many months of rehearsing and performing, the choreography has sunk into her muscles and into his. They work in flawless synchronicity, his fingers her only source of balance when she extends her leg in an arabesque, his hands on her hips as she pirouettes. She emotes at him when the choreo brings them face to face, even though she’s still fucking furious with the way he carelessly destroyed her brother’s heart and left David burrowed beneath a sea of blankets and mall pretzel wrappers. He emotes back at her, and everything in his face is so phony Alexis could scream, but of course she doesn’t. She just smiles placidly and concentrates on nailing their lifts.

Even in an auditorium this big, she can feel her mother’s gaze on her, Moira’s eyes dissecting her every move. David will always be their mother’s favourite - Alexis has long suspected she was a vaguely unwanted accident - but when Alexis is on stage, she’s a performer, just like her mom, and she’s worthy of attention. If her dad can make time to see her, he always brings flowers and tells her she was wonderful, but it’s Moira’s reaction that matters, the undisguised disappointment or the effusive pride.

She wants to win the Grand Prix so badly that every atom of her body aches with it.

She doesn’t.

All that work she poured into her Kitri variation, all the bloody toes, all the bouts of tendinitis that she fought stubbornly against, all those hours in the studio until she’d wake up gasping in the middle of the night, the crescendo of the music pounding in her head - it wasn’t enough.

A boy from Argentina takes the Grand Prix, his face alight with joy. The girl from nowhere - whose name, Alexis learns at the awards ceremony, is Twyla Sands - places first. Alexis gets second, and she crosses the stage to accept her award in her long red dress with its high slit and her strappy gold heels, the smile on her face fixed there so firmly that her cheeks scream with pain. Standing there waiting for photographs to be taken, she can _hear_ her mother lamenting, “Oh, A _lex_ is.”

David’s not even there to provide a buffer, thanks to the fact that her slut of a partner had to go and dump him because “the vibes just weren’t pulsing on exactly the right wavelength, you know?” Alexis did _not_ know, not then, when she’d flung a pointe shoe at his head, and not now, when getting first place for their pas de deux does nothing to ease the sting of unshed tears in her eyes.

“You were beautiful, honey,” her dad says warmly, handing her the traditional bouquet of roses. Half his attention is on the BlackBerry he insists on continuing to use, even though literally everyone else in the world has moved on.

“Thanks, Dad.” She balances the huge bouquet in the crook of one of her arms.

“I’ve never seen that girl before,” her mother says, beatific smile on her face as she waves at someone across the room. “The one who ousted you from a first-place finish.”

Alexis exhales, tugging absently at one of her earrings. “Me neither.”

“She can’t possibly have better training than you.”

Alexis stares down at her feet, bandaged and bruised beneath her shiny shoes. “I know.”

“Hold your chin up, Alexis,” her mother scolds. “One must never look compunctious in public.”

She lifts her chin to a comical height, petulantly, like she’s twelve years old again and contemplating leaving ballet behind to pursue modelling, to get _away_ from all of this, from her _mother_. “Thanks for coming,” she says, her words stiff with sarcasm. “You can leave now.”

“Oh - ” Johnny looks up from his phone, tuning back into the conversation. “No…” He looks between Alexis and Moira cautiously. “Your mother and I are so proud of you, Alexis. We want to take you to dinner - ”

“Thanks,” Alexis says. “But no thanks. I have somewhere to be.”

There’s nowhere she _has_ to be, but the place she chooses to be is her brother’s apartment. David’s exams are over, so she knows she’ll find him there; he seems to have decided to spend the summer doing some combination of wallowing and hibernating.

She grabs a Lyft and lets herself into his quote-unquote _live-work space_ with her key, dumping her dance bag by the door and impatiently unbuckling her shoes before she makes her way to his bedroom.

“ _Woof_ , David,” she says as she steps into the dark, dank room. “It’s starting to _smell_ in here.”

“Eat glass, Alexis,” the lump on the bed retorts.

She kneels on the mattress and pulls at the blankets - he fights, but she wins out. “David,” she says, poking both her index fingers against his shoulder, alternating between the two. “I don’t think this is, like, healthy.”

“Wow, Alexis,” he says flatly, squinting at her in a way that makes her want to ask where his anti-aging face cream is so she can slather it on for him. “Did you win first place in critical reasoning, too?”

“Don’t be a dick, David,” she lectures mildly, then frowns. Neither of her parents would have bothered to tell David how she fared at the competition, which means - “Give me your phone,” she says.

“No,” he says immediately.

“I _told_ you to stop Insta-stalking Sebastien!”

“I wasn’t - ”

“David.” Alexis sprawls out on her stomach next to him, using her elbows to keep herself propped up in something resembling baby cobra; the stretch feels great in her lower back. “You're graduating. It's _summer_. You shouldn’t be lying here in a sweater. I thought you were going to start working on opening that gallery?”

Her brother looks truly, genuinely sad then - not annoyed, not sullen, not troubled, but _sad_ , like some younger version of himself. The expression is shuttered off his face quickly, but its brief presence is enough to make Alexis’ throat feel like it’s trying to close up.

“My investor was a lie,” he tells her.

She tips her head to one side. “What?”

“Eli called me. Seems like he forgot that I wasn’t supposed to know that Mom and Dad were bankrolling the whole thing.”

“Oh,” Alexis says quietly.

David kicks his blankets the rest of the way off and hauls himself into a sitting position. “Bring me a brush,” he says. “I’ll take your hair out.”

Her lips tilt up into a smile. David used to extract all the pins and elastics and the hairnet from her hair when she was younger, and run a brush carefully over her aching scalp, because she always whined that Adelina’s quick fingers were too rough. It’s something they haven’t done in years.

She collects a hairbrush from on top of his dresser and takes a seat in front of him, gathering the long skirt of her dress into her lap so that she can comfortably sit crossed-legged. A bobby pin scrapes lightly against her head as David pulls it out. It doesn’t even hurt, but some part of her wants to cry, and maybe he knows that, her big brother, because he says quietly, “Congratulations on the win, Allie.”

She swallows fiercely against the tightness in her throat. “I didn’t really win. It's not like getting first in solos; there are fewer ensembles, and I know we hate Seb but he’s really good at grand allegro, so.”

David hums as he removes her hairnet. “You’re disappointed.”

“I’m not,” she says immediately. “The guy who won the Grand Prix - he was really, really good. He’ll probably be a principal dancer in less than five years. I just… I got second, and the girl that beat me… ” She presses her lips together. “She deserved to beat me. She was better than me. And - and Mom - ”

His hands rest lightly on her shoulders, just for a heartbeat, before he begins unwinding her braided bun. “Mom’s not the expert on ballet. And she’s not the expert on you.”

Alexis’ tears spill, at last, out of her eyes and onto her cheeks. In an unattractive, water-clogged voice, she says, “Mom and Dad aren’t the experts on you, either. You should open your gallery.”

David makes a skeptical noise, kindly pretending not to notice that she’s crying. “I need an investor. A real one.”

“So get one.”

“You always do that,” he says irritably, though the brush he’s running through her hairspray-stiff hair continues its slow, gentle trajectory.

“Do what?”

“Say things like they’re easy.”

She reaches back to rap her knuckles against his knee. “Maybe they _are_.”

He _hmphs_ behind her. “I assume you think you’re staying here tonight.”

Alexis doesn’t even bother responding, not when he already knows the answer. “Can you find me something to sleep in while I shower?” She turns her body slightly to see his face. “And maybe you could also change your clothes?” she suggests hopefully.

David scowls at her, but she hops up off the bed before he can reply and makes her way to his bathroom, which has an _excellent_ rainfall shower head.

She’s peeling off her false eyelashes and scrolling through Spotify, trying to choose a chill playlist for her shower, when her phone starts to ring, and a photograph of herself and her coach, both of their faces partially obscured by a bouquet of lilies, appears on the screen.

“He- _ey_ ,” she says as she answers, cringing in anticipation.

“You made a speedy exit, princess,” her longtime teacher says in an unimpressed drawl.

“Yeah.” Alexis bites at her thumb. “I know. Sorry. It’s just - my parents were being so needy and annoying about taking me to dinner, so.”

“Uh-huh,” Ronnie says flatly; she’s always been able to tell when Alexis is lying. “You weren’t happy.”

“Of course I was happy.” She frowns down at the Romanian tile on David’s bathroom floor. Alexis makes a concerted effort to be happy one hundred percent of the time.

“Alexis, placing second at YAGP finals is nothing to turn your nose up at. It’s a damn huge accomplishment.”

“I know,” she murmurs.

“You kept your hips quiet like we’ve talked about; you did a great job of keeping your port de bras in time with the music. Your pirouettes were gorgeous. This is a win, princess. Take it as one.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Thanks, Ronnie.”

“Mmhm. Get some rest. I’ll see you Monday.”

“See you Monday,” Alexis echoes before ending the call and setting her phone down. She looks at herself in the mirror, meets her reflection’s eyes. “It’s a win,” she tells herself.

The girl in the mirror doesn’t believe her.

After a night of battling David for possession of the duvet, Alexis eats a bagel for breakfast and orders a large Americano at a coffee shop as she herds her grumpy brother and his giant sunglasses to a spa. Once he’s safely deposited with an aesthetician, she heads back home, where their housekeeper, Susanna, greets her with a stack of mail.

She sucks in a sharp breath as she flips through the envelopes. They’re letters from companies.

She races up the staircase to the wing of the house that she’s come to think of as hers, ever since David moved out. In her bedroom, she tears off yesterday’s dress and pulls on a cropped t-shirt and a pair of Lulus before fastening on her lucky A necklace with shaky fingers. Then she sits down on the cushioned window seat, legs crossed, and lays all six envelopes out in front of her.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself. “Okay.”

She opens the envelopes in quick succession, only skimming the letters contained within, looking for a series of placating words that mean _no_ or a sentence that contains the word _congratulations._

Her success rate is fifty percent. The Royal Ballet doesn’t want her, which isn’t a surprise; that was a reach. Pacific Northwest and ABT have also turned her down.

The offers are from San Francisco Ballet, Boston Ballet, and the National Ballet of Canada.

Boston’s a no, as far as she’s concerned. It’s a good company, but it’ll be so cold there, and at least three of her exes go to Harvard, so moving to Massachusetts just seems like asking for drama. San Francisco is the obvious choice: Alexis has always thrived in warm, sunny weather, and she’d probably be very happy in California.

Yet the letter from the National Ballet draws her fingertips toward it. It feels, more than the other offers, like an opportunity.

She was born in Toronto, though she has no memories of living in Canada; her family relocated to New York on a permanent basis when she was two. She’s only been back to see ballets, but she’s always had a good time.

It’ll be cold in Canada, too, she knows, but it’s much closer than San Francisco, closer to David, in case he needs her. And at the same time, it feels so far away. A whole new country. A fresh start.

She once sat in this exact same place, all of twelve years old, and longed for something different, ached to escape the dizzying see-saw of experiencing all of her mother’s attention and then absolutely none of it. Then, her love for ballet was what made her stay. Now, it’s offering her a way out.

She picks up her phone and texts Ronnie two simple words, _national ballet._

The response is swift: _be there in 45._

They meet in the studio on the first floor of the Roses’ home - once one of many sitting rooms, Alexis’ parents had it renovated when she was six years old. Ronnie’s wearing what Alexis tends to think of as her uniform: trash bag pants and a warm-up vest over a long-sleeved leo, jazz sneakers on her feet. They fall into their typical positions, Ronnie in the chair by the mirror and Alexis sitting on the floor, instinctively stretching her hip flexors, while Ronnie reads over the offer letter.

“This is good,” Ronnie says decisively when she’s finished reading.

“It is?” Alexis asks, grinning as she feels a rush of relief. She hadn’t realized how desperately she wanted Ronnie to approve of her decision.

“Yes. I think it’s the right choice for you.” A reluctant smile forms on Ronnie’s face in response to Alexis’ grin. “You’ll be an asset, princess. They’ll be lucky to have you.”

“Thank you,” Alexis tells her sincerely, hands clasped to her chest, fingers brushing the A that rests against her sternum.

Ronnie nods, turning the offer letter over in her hands. “You should see if they have a roommate program.”

“Roommate?” Alexis feels her eyebrows creep up on her forehead. “It’s a _company_ , Ronnie, not a summer program.”

“And new members of the _company_ might be looking for roommates to share apartments with in the city, princess. Sometimes they’ll have a system to match up new dancers.” She raises an eyebrow back at Alexis. “If they do, I think that would be good for you.”

“Oh.” Alexis gives her shoulders a little shimmy, like she needs to shake that idea off. “I don’t know.”

“If there’s a form,” Ronnie says, “you should fill it out. See what happens.” She pauses. “You’d have someone to go through it all with. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

Alexis peers up at her, mildly petulant but mostly reconciled to listening to her mentor. Ronnie has, after all, never led her astray. “I will.”

Ronnie reaches out and carefully tucks a few strands of Alexis’ hair - which she let air-dry, slept on, and then tossed into a messy bun in the morning - behind her ear. “I’m proud of you,” she says, steadily serious, not even the barest hint of irony in her expression.

Alexis’ heart seizes in her chest. Ronnie is perpetually exasperated with her, but she’s always believed in Alexis, always loved her. It hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that joining a company meant _leaving_ her coach. They’ve known each other for over a decade, since Alexis was seven years old. Ronnie sewed the ribbons onto Alexis’ very first pair of pointe shoes. She was the one who drove Alexis to the hospital when she got stung by a bee and had an allergic reaction. She’s the person Alexis called from Hong Kong, sobbing snottily about wanting to come home; she booked Alexis a plane ticket on her own credit card. She’s the person Alexis always looks for in an audience. She’s demanded more when Alexis thought she had nothing left to give; she’s driven Alexis to performances that made her feel exhilarated, like she was dancing through clouds; she’s comforted Alexis through sprained ankles and bloody toes and mental blocks.

Lifting her own hand, Alexis touches Ronnie’s wrist. “I’ll miss you,” she says quietly.

Ronnie brushes her knuckles quickly over Alexis’ cheek, a gesture that unmistakably means _I’ll miss you, too_ , and then clears her throat. “Finish stretching and let’s get you to the barre,” she says. “We can do adagio to celebrate.”

“Grand battement to celebrate!” Alexis protests. Ronnie gives her a look that says _nice try_ and Alexis groans dramatically, shifting into middle splits and bending over her right leg as she pouts.

It turns out that there is, indeed, a form. There’s a link to it in an e-mail Alexis receives after she accepts her offer, and she dutifully fills it out. The form asks about her sleeping habits, the level of quiet she expects in her living space, and how she’d rate herself on a scale of ten, from ‘messy’ to ‘tidy’ - she looks guiltily toward the pile of clothes on her bedroom floor as she selects number six. The form also wants to know if she has any hobbies, which is a mildly hilarious question to pose to a group of ballet company newbies who probably dedicate every one of their waking hours to honing both their physical skills and their artistry. She writes _travelling_ and _manicures_.

Three days later, another e-mail shows up in her inbox, its subject line announcing that she’s been matched with a roommate. She’s sitting on David’s couch, doing her sisterly duty by making sure he doesn’t eat more than one pint of Ben & Jerry’s in a single evening,

“Ooh, David!” she chirps, frowning when the e-mail takes an unnecessary amount of time to load - did David somehow exhaust his wifi watching Bridget Jones movies? “I have a roomie!”

“I still can’t believe you’re willingly sharing an apartment with someone,” he says around a mouthful of Cherry Garcia. “You should have had to submit a picture of the landfill that is your bedroom. I hope she’s not a minimalist.”

“She’s not going to be a _minimalist,_ David,” Alexis huffs. “I bet we’ll be besties, that’s what happens when you have a shared experi - ” She snaps her mouth shut suddenly, staring at the screen.

“What?” David asks. He sticks his spoon into his ice cream and sits up a little straighter. “What is it? Is she terrible?”

“It’s, um… it’s… ” Alexis has forgotten every word she’s ever known. There’s a picture of her new roommate included in the e-mail, right under her name: Twyla Sands.

“Oh, God,” David says, peering over her shoulder. “Is that a _paisley_ blouse? With a straight-leg jean?” He leans in even closer. “She looks like she was plucked off the set of _Little House on the Prairie._ ”

“She’s the one who beat me,” Alexis says quietly. “At YAGP.”

“Oh,” her brother says, significantly, in the tone most people would use to say _shit._

They read Twyla’s paragraph about herself together: _Hi, roommate! I can’t wait to meet you in person! My name is Twyla, and I’m from a small town in northern Ontario called Schitt’s Creek - you’ve probably never heard of it! I’ve been dancing since I was nine and ballet has always been my favourite. I’m so thrilled to be joining the National Ballet (I’m sure you are too!). I’ve never lived in a city as big as Toronto before so I’m really happy that we’ll be able to navigate it together. My favourite singer is Lorde, my favourite food is blueberry pancakes, and I’d love to go to Paris someday! My favourite colour is watermelon pink and my second favourite colour is periwinkle blue. I’d love to know some of your favourite things, too! :)_

“Well,” David says, returning his attention to his ice cream, “at least you have the same second favourite colour.”

Alexis’ farewell dinner is an icy affair. David’s still enraged with their parents for posing as investors in his gallery and the glaring implication that they didn’t believe he could possibly secure investors on his own merit. Their mother will not be out-performed and delivers a full monologue to their father which culminates in her request that he remove the knife David has lodged in her back (“The knife in _your_ back!?” David exclaims incredulously, waving his fork around for emphasis). Their dad is repeatedly distracted by the vibration of his phone, signalling the arrival of a new e-mail. She’s about to leave the _country_ , and not one member of her family seems to give a single fuck. She’s uninterested in eating her slice of the cake her parents ordered, elaborately decorated with a pair of fondant pointe shoes posed atop it.

The next morning, she waits outside, perched against the tallest of her four suitcases, Valentino sunglasses resting on her nose. Her father’s already left for work, and her mother’s still asleep; it fell to Susanna to hug her goodbye.

Ronnie’s car pulls into the long, horseshoe-shaped driveway and stops in front of the house. Alexis straightens up and opens the passenger-side door automatically - only to find her brother already sitting in the front seat.

“David,” she says, her surprise causing her to lean away.

“You have to sit in the back,” he says, without moving, while Ronnie gets out of the car to load Alexis’ bags into the trunk.

Her instinct is to argue with her brother, so she ends up saying, “What? No,” before she manages to ask, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m seeing my sister off,” he says, his hands waving through the air in annoyance, like she’s being purposefully obtuse.

“David,” she says again. She takes off her sunglasses. “You want to come with me to the airport? You want to walk me all the way to the line for security, like in a movie?”

“Well, that seems like a little much,” he mumbles.

“Oh my god, David.” Alexis beams. “You’re gonna miss me.”

“I literally never said that.”

“You _love_ me,” she says, still grinning wildly. Part of her is teasing him, but part of her isn’t - part of her is bolstered, part of her is touched.

“Get in the back, Alexis,” he says, and grabs the handle on the door to pull it shut, barely giving her time to leap out of the way before the door can scrape her leg.

David and Ronnie _do_ walk Alexis to security, where she hugs them both tightly.

“Take care, princess,” Ronnie says, actually sounding fond. “Show them what you’ve got.”

“I’ll show them everything you’ve taught me,” Alexis promises, holding on for an extra few seconds.

David’s hug seems kind of tentative at first, his hands hovering above rather than resting against her back, but when she snuggles into him and his way-too-warm-for-summer sweater, her face pressed into his shoulder, his arms wrap around her more securely, folded across her body.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he mumbles into her hair. “Or at least not _too_ stupid. Take care of my sister.”

Her lower lip quivers, just for an instant. “Take care of my brother,” she volleys back. “He doesn’t have to spend the whole summer eating mall pretzels. He can do anything. I know he can.”

“Hmph,” David says, noncommittally, as he pulls back, but he smiles at her. “Safe flight.”

“Love you!” Alexis tells them both, wiggles her fingers at them in a wave, and shows the TSA agent her boarding pass.

Alexis takes a cab from Pearson International to her new home in downtown Toronto. She examines the trees and storefronts and faces that blur past the taxi’s window with quiet curiosity. Some streets look almost familiar, while others remind her, vividly, that she’s not in New York anymore.

The driver doesn’t seem overly enthused about helping her transport all four of her suitcases up two flights of stairs to the apartment she’ll be sharing with her roommate, which is on the third floor of what appears to have once been a large house. She bats her lashes at him, pokes out her bottom lip and rests her chin against the back of a lifted hand as she tells him, “They’re just so _heavy_ , you know?” like her arms aren’t muscled beneath her kimono-style sweater.

When all her bags are sitting on the landing in front of the apartment, she says a sunny thank-you to the driver, tips him three Canadian twenties, and squares her shoulders as she faces the door. It’s white, with a nick in the paint here and there, and a rusty brass _3_ above the peephole. It’s her home for the foreseeable future, and it might be different from what she’s used to, but she can work with it. Alexis can work with anything.

She tests the doorknob and finds it unlocked; it turns under her grip.

The apartment is small, she discovers, once she steps inside - the entryway kind of bleeds immediately into the kitchen. There’s already a doormat laid out: it declares _Welcome!_ in a cursive font, surrounded by daisies. A single pair of ballet flats are lined up neatly next to it.

“Hello?” a voice calls. It’s soft, melodic, but also noticeably anxious.

“Hi!” Alexis calls back, making sure to infuse her voice with enthusiasm.

“Oh,” breathes her new roommate as she turns the corner and spots Alexis in the doorway. “Alexis! Thank god. I realized I forgot to lock the door; I thought you might’ve been some sort of city intruder. My cousin got mugged here once. Well - ” Twyla tilts her head to one side, the rolling pin in her grasp held loosely now. Her hair is up in a high pony, the soft curl in it signalling that it was probably recently wrapped into a bun. “Actually, I think she might’ve been _dating_ a mugger, but it was still bad. So I’m so happy it’s you.”

Twyla smiles, then, and it’s so bright and beaming that it feels like it takes up space in the apartment, like it wraps itself around Alexis. She finds herself blinking against the sight of it, the same way guys sometimes blink in her direction when she shows up at a party in one of her best little black dresses - like for a moment, the boundaries between reality and imagination are hazy and nebulous, impossible to grasp.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” Twyla continues. “We were both at YAGP finals?”

Alexis gives her shoulders a shimmy, shaking herself out of her stupor. “Of _course_ I remember you! You placed first in our category.”

Twyla’s smile dims, her modesty pulling back its sparkle. “I don’t know how they decide on awards. Everyone there was so talented.”

“No, don’t,” Alexis says, surprising them both; the words just sort of trip out of her mouth, without any real input from her brain. “Don’t do that. You’re… an incredible dancer. You deserved the award you got.”

Smile brightening again, Twyla asks, “Can I hug you?”

“Um,” Alexis says, taken aback by the question, “Yeah.”

For someone so small, Twyla’s hug has a startling amount of force to it, her arms wrapping firmly around Alexis’ waist. When they separate, she doesn’t say what so many dancers have said to Alexis before, noses scrunched in false pity: _you’re, like, really tall for a ballerina._ There’s something so gratifying about that, something so refreshing about the swing of Twyla’s ponytail, about the pattern of sunflowers on her dress, about the way nothing about Alexis’ new roommate seems to be fabricated or performative. She doesn’t quite know how to feel about it, or how to respond to someone so earnest, such a drastic change from the girls she danced with in New York.

In the end, she settles on saying, “You know, we have the same second favourite colour,” and Twyla grins at her like Alexis has given her some kind of unseen gift.

Alexis manages to fill both the small IKEA dresser in her bedroom and the entirety of the similarly small closet with the contents of one and a half of her suitcases. It’s a conundrum she wasn’t expecting, and one she doesn’t know how to solve. She stands in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, sort of hoping another storage space will reveal itself to her.

“Oh, wow,” Twyla says softly from the doorway. “You have a lot of stuff.”

“I like clothes,” Alexis says, not quite able to tell if she feels sheepish or defiant. “And my mom hates outfit repeating.”

“Outfit repeating?” Twyla repeats. “Like… wearing the same outfit more than once?”

“Yeah,” Alexis says, looking miserably at the pile of homeless dresses stacked atop her bare mattress.

“That’s what clothes are for,” Twyla says. “To wear. More than just one time.”

“Once you’re photographed in something, though,” Alexis informs her, perching next to the dresses, “it’s super embarrassing to be seen in it again. Which is, like, _so_ unfair and stupid, when you think about. I mean, like, for women. I swear my dad’s worn the same suit to every single premiere he’s ever been to.”

“Premiere?” Twyla inches into the room. “Like a _movie_ premiere?”

Alexis nods. “My mom’s an actress. She’s on _Sunrise Bay._ ”

“Oh my god,” Twyla says. Her green eyes - a truer green than Alexis’, which sometimes lean toward blue - have gone very wide. “I’ve _seen_ that show.”

Most people have, but Alexis doesn’t feel tempted to say _yeah, duh?_ to Twyla like she might to someone else. Instead she says, “Yeah. I guess it’s pretty popular.”

“So, your mom’s…” Twyla’s gaze roams over Alexis’ messily over-stuffed suitcases. “Famous.”

Alexis chews the inside of her bottom lip. She can see herself through Twyla’s eyes: spoiled, overindulged, out of touch with what might be considered a normal amount of closet space. “Kind of.”

Twyla nods slowly. “Well, um. My closet’s not totally full. You could probably fit some of those dresses in it, if you want?”

“Really?” Alexis asks, perking up. “Oh my god, _amazing_ , Twyla. You’re a total lifesaver!” She clasps her hands together. “Okay, yes, this is great. You can borrow anything you want,” she adds, magnanimously.

“Anything?” Twyla echoes, eyeing a fringed, sparkly dress like it scares her.

“Yup!” Alexis chirps, gathering an armful of clothing. “You’re the best, Twyla. Oh - let me buy you dinner as a thank-you!” She gently maneuvers her way past Twyla and through the doorway. “In my experience,” she says over her shoulder, wisely, “it takes some trial and error to find a city’s best sushi.”

“I’ve never had sushi,” Twyla murmurs from behind her.

Alexis nearly drops her dresses. “Twyla,” she says. “ _Twyla_. I am about to change your life.”

She orders a range of what she thinks of as introductory sushi rolls: California, spicy tuna, yam tempura, avocado and cucumber. They eat at the kitchen table, which they discover is wobbly; Twyla solves the problem by folding up a napkin and jamming it beneath one leg. Alexis giggles behind her hand at the pinched look on Twyla’s face when she first tries wasabi, and tells her new roomie all about the best ballet performances she’s ever seen, perfect executions of Swan Lake’s infamous thirty-two fouettes, the rose adage from The Sleeping Beauty danced so beautifully that she cried, mascara running in streaks down her cheeks.

Twyla listens with starry eyes and wistful sighs. “I’ve only ever seen The Nutcracker,” she says. “And just the one time, but it was so beautiful. You’re so lucky - I’d love to see all those ballets.”

Alexis feels the punch of her privilege again ( _you’re so lucky_ ), and clears her throat delicately, setting down her chopsticks. “You don’t have to see ballets, Twy,” she says, dropping the second syllable off Twyla’s name so naturally she doesn’t even realize she’s done it. “You’re going to be them.”

They’re supposed to be at the company early in the morning, so they opt to sleep early - but before Alexis can go to sleep, she needs to get her new sheets, high thread count and purchased on her brother’s advice, onto her bed.

It’s way harder than she thought it would be.

When she fails to get the fitted sheet on, she turns it ninety degrees - or at least she _thinks_ she does, but maybe she doesn’t, because it doesn’t fit that way, either. It takes several attempts to finally get the sheet on, and even then, it’s not fitted to the mattress with the taut precision the maids at home would always achieve. One of the corners isn’t quite on the corner; instead, it’s further in atop the mattress, sort of bunched up unattractively. She feels totally overwhelmed by the prospect of getting her duvet into its coverlet.

Knuckles rap softly against her doorframe and Twyla says, “Hey…” When Alexis looks up, hair spilling out of its fishtail braid and tank top strap twisted on her shoulder, Twyla adds, “I just wanted to say goodnight. Are you… okay?”

Alexis flops down onto her stupid fitted sheet, which is not doing its one and only job and _fitting_. She feels embarrassed, all of a sudden, and flicks her wrists downward as she says, “I’ve never, like… actually made a bed before?” Her words climb upward, turning her statement into a question.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, like Twyla’s waiting for Alexis to laugh and say she’s kidding, but all Alexis can do is give her wrists another distressed flick and look around helplessly. “Okay,” Twyla says simply. “I can help you.”

With an ease that kind of astonishes Alexis, Twyla gets all the corners of the fitted sheet to line up neatly with the corners of the mattress beneath it. She then helps Alexis put on the top sheet, telling her that the secret is to put the pretty, patterned side face-down, because it’s softer. The pillowcases are easy enough, and putting the duvet cover on is a bit of an exercise in agility, but Twyla knows what to do, and tells Alexis to hold onto the top corners so that the duvet doesn’t slide down and leave part of its covering limp and empty.

“Thank you,” Alexis says quietly when they’re done. She feels uncharacteristically shy, strangely self-conscious, about having needed assistance with such a fundamentally basic task.

“No problem at all,” Twyla tells her. She leans forward, pressing both her palms against the duvet; Alexis finds herself mirroring the position on the other side of the bed. It’s a double, so it’s not very big, and they’re close enough that she can smell Twyla’s minty-fresh breath.

“I should tell you,” Twyla divulges. “I think this place is probably haunted.”

Alexis’ eyebrows shoot upward. “You - what?”

Twyla nods, somber but apparently unbothered. “Someone has definitely died here.”

Alexis opens her mouth and then closes it again. “Are you, um, sure?”

“Totally.” Twyla straightens up again. “But I’m _mostly_ sure they’re friendly!” She smiles, and there’s not a shred of malice in it - it’s obvious to Alexis that Twyla’s not trying to fuck with her, like David used to when they were younger. Twyla completely believes what she’s saying. “Sweet dreams,” she adds, and leaves Alexis alone.

For a minute, Alexis glances around her room, wondering if she’d be able to sense it, somehow, if there was a ghost there with her. A shiver climbs up her spine, but she looks at her bed, neatly made and ready to be crawled into, and shakes it off.

Twenty minutes after she’s curled up under her blankets and five minutes after she’s resolved to ignore any mysterious sounds, Alexis realizes that she forgot to do something very important.

“Fuck,” she whispers to her empty room. She grabs her phone off of her nightstand and texts David quickly: _landed safely!!!_

His reply comes less than a minute later: _like 8 hours ago alexis. I tracked your flight._

 _miss you 2 david!!_ she responds, along with every possible heart emoji.

In the morning, Alexis gets dressed in a pair of very pale pink tights and her favourite black leotard, the one with spaghetti straps that criss-cross in a pretty pattern across her back, over which she pulls on a blue dress. She knows the company has locker rooms, but until she gets the lay of the land, she figures she may as well show up dressed to dance.

Apparently Twyla’s had the same thought, because when Alexis finds her in the kitchen, she’s also wearing a leo and tights, with a pair of denim shorts pulled on over top. There are bobby pins scattered across the kitchen table, and Twyla seems to be struggling to get her bun together, her fingers trembling when she reaches for a pin.

“I’m so nervous,” she confesses, looking up at Alexis. Her eyes are open and honest, everything she’s feeling right there on the surface. “And I can’t - ” She releases her hold on her bun, and her hair tumbles down. “I can’t get this right.”

“I’ll help,” Alexis says easily. She plucks the pin Twyla’s holding out from between her fingers, and then corrals the bobby pins on the table into a more manageable pile. With practiced fingers, she winds Twyla’s ponytail into a bun and begins securing it in place with the pins.

Twyla’s leotard is plainer than Alexis’: it has short sleeves and a simple scoop neck. The back of it dips low, though, showing her birdlike shoulder blades, the ripple of her muscles when she moves. The freckles on her back are more dispersed than those on her face and arms, little clusters of them forming constellations. Alexis wonders how it feels to have stars on your skin.

Over her shoulder, Twyla hands back a hairnet. “Thanks, Alexis,” she says.

“Girl.” Alexis winds the hairnet around Twyla’s bun, which looks very professional, if she does say so herself. “Literally what else are roommates for?”

Twyla’s never taken the subway before, so Alexis kind of herds her onto the TTC, nudging her gently through turnstiles, down escalators, and through the doors of a subway car. It’s standing room only during the morning rush, commuters trying to escape the summer heat, and Twyla doesn’t have her public transit legs under her yet, so Alexis hooks their arms together to keep her steady when the track curves abruptly or they come to an sudden stop in station.

Even once they’re off the subway and on a sunny street once again, Twyla keeps their arms linked. Her elbow keeps bumping against Alexis’ hip. Her fingers are clenched, and her whole body seems shaky; Alexis thinks she catches the sound of Twyla’s teeth chattering.

She stops them just before they enter the building and puts firm, steadying hands on Twyla’s shoulders, the same kind of thing Ronnie used to do for her when she was a preteen bundle of nerves before an international competition. “Twyla,” she says very seriously.

Twyla stares at her, waiting for more. When Alexis doesn’t speak, she asks, so quietly that her voice is nearly a squeak: “Yeah?”

“You won first place at YAGP finals. _First place._ You went out on that stage, and you danced, and you won. You did that. So you can do this. This is just a ballet class. You’ve taken, like, a gazillion ballet classes. Right?”

Twyla swallows hard. “Right.”

“Right,” Alexis agrees. “You’re just here to dance. And you can dance.” She turns Twyla toward the building with the hands she’s got on her shoulders. “So let’s go.”

“Okay,” Twyla says, though Alexis still has to give her a teeny push to get her moving.

The day passes in something of a blur. Alexis meets the other new members of the corps de ballet; they talk about teachers and schools, intensives and competitions, and it’s all friendly, but they’re sizing each other up. The artistic director speaks to them: expectations are outlined, demands are set, and they learn that their first ballet of the season is La Sylphide. Then the entire company floods into the room and the ballet mistress begins talking in a voice that’s carefully measured, just loud enough to be heard so long as everyone in the room is paying close attention, and every ounce of Alexis’ attention is consumed in an attempt to quickly memorize a new plié exercise.

As they move through the basics at the barre, Alexis does what she’s supposed to do, for the most part, and keeps her attention honed in on her body, on perfecting her positions, on tilting her chin just right and keeping her gaze focused in all the right places. But she allows herself one quick, undisciplined glance to her left during the dégagé combination, and she’s happy to see that Twyla’s arm is moving from first to second position with comfortable musicality, her feet sweeping along the studio floor like they’ve been dancing there for years and years.

Alexis finds herself biting back a smile, and she almost forgets to soutenu so that she can repeat the exercise on her other leg.

They don’t leave until late, when the sun has begun its descent. The other three eighteen-year-olds who joined the company look kind of dazed - Alexis hopes she’s held onto a bit more poise than that, but she’s not entirely convinced. Her face feels overheated and her muscles are already aching, _everywhere_. She’s done ten-hour training days before, but this feels different. Her brain is expected to work quickly, to pick up choreo and steep it into her body in the blink of an eye, and the combination of mental and physical exertion is rough.

Twyla doesn’t look much better than she feels, freckles standing out on her flushed cheeks. She rolls her neck out as she and Alexis tiredly plod out onto the street.

By wordless agreement, they collapse onto the steps of a building about a block away. Alexis barely has the energy to keep her feet in her Balenciaga slides, never mind walk to the subway.

Twyla stretches her legs out in increments, like every movement hurts. When her knees are finally straight, she half-whispers, “That was amazing.”

Alexis looks over her, and - yeah, it _was_ amazing, but she also kind of feels like she just ran an ultra-marathon, and she has to do it all over again tomorrow. She’s full of the strangest mix of disbelief, dismay, and desire, and maybe Twyla feels the exact same way, because she starts to giggle. She looks surprised at herself, clamping a hand over her mouth, but she doesn’t quite seem able to stop.

It only takes about four seconds for Alexis to break, and then she’s laughing, too, her loud, unrefined laugh, the one that makes her snort, which does nothing to quell Twyla’s fit of laughter.

They sputter and gasp and fall into each other, Twyla’s head against Alexis’ shoulder, Alexis’ cheek against her hair, their arms pressed tightly together. Twyla’s hand reaches out toward Alexis’ knee, a gesture that seems to mean _stop_ , but it’s another couple minutes before they pull themselves together, the occasional quiet giggle escaping.

“We have to - ” Alexis gasps and swallows her laughter. “We have to get something to eat.”

“Yes,” Twyla agrees, attempting seriousness, though her smile is still wide. “We need to refuel.”

They pull each other up off the steps and stop at the first food truck they encounter, which happens to be selling ice cream.

In between the blaring sound of her early-morning alarm, demanding classes with Wendy the ballet mistress pacing the studio (long skirts, dangling bracelets, lips pursed as she looks at Alexis’ feet in a way that could easily be either admiration or disapproval), breaks snatched to roll out her calves and eat a banana for the potassium, the first rehearsals for La Sylphide, and battles to break in pairs of pointe shoes, Alexis quietly catalogues all the ways Twyla is unlike anyone else she’s ever known.

When they’re not in dancewear, she exists in colours: teal pyjama pants printed with neon pink kittens, mint green socks covered in white alpacas with Christmas lights around their necks, sweaters that fall of her shoulders and reveal the straps of a coral-coloured bralette. Even when they’re headed to rehearsal, when Alexis might be tempted to swap a lilac-coloured cardigan for something black and slim-fitting, Twyla just wears what she likes.

She never treats Alexis like competition, despite the fact that she _is_ \- if they both stay at the National Ballet, one day they’ll be rivals to fill second and first soloist positions. But Twyla’s kindness is unfailing, and not just with Alexis, but with absolutely everyone she interacts with. Twyla doesn’t play games with her words, twisting their meanings with flinty eyes or a sardonic edge. She seems to mean everything she says.

She’s great at sharing, even though she’s told Alexis that she’s an only child. She always eats exactly half of the little tubs of yogurt in the multi-pack they buy. She asks every time she wants to borrow Alexis’ hair straightener, which is something David never had the courtesy to do. If Alexis is looking worn out at break, she’ll offer half her Clif bar without a second thought. She even lets Alexis borrow her deodorant once.

Whenever she cooks, she always makes enough for Alexis, too, especially after the Fire Alarm Incident during the first week they lived together, when Alexis hadn’t known the piece of cardboard beneath the frozen pizza she’d slid out of a box wasn’t supposed to go in the oven. Even when they’re both bone tired, even when it’s nearly nine o’clock, Twyla will make dinner.

It occurs to Alexis, one evening, that it might be good to tell Twyla that she’s glad they’re roommates. When she looks down at Twyla, though, pressed against her in a crowded subway car, the words feel like they get stuck in her throat.

Instead, she says, “Hey, Twy, I have leg warmers that would totally match the leo you’re wearing today. They’re, like, the _exact_ same blue. You should have them.”

Twyla blinks up at her, looking faintly but pleasantly surprised. “I could just borrow them - ”

“No,” Alexis says. Her palm feels sweaty against the pole she’s holding, which is really gross; she’s pretty sure the subway is supposed to have air conditioning. She tells Twyla, firmly, “They’re yours.”

Alexis makes an effort to talk to her brother once every couple weeks. She’s traveled quite a bit in her life, to participate in intensives and to view once-in-a-lifetime performances, and there was her four-month career as an international teen model, but when she’s at her home base, she’s accustomed to being able to barge into her brother’s space whenever she wants to. Even after he moved out, she pestered him with enough early-morning croissant deliveries and late-night whiny voicemails that he finally made her a key.

She can hardly remember a time when she and David didn’t pretend to be permanently annoyed by one another, but the truth is that they’re closer than either of them would ever let on, and the even deeper truth, the one Alexis would be reluctant to put into words that weren’t sarcastic, is that part of her misses him. Dance has long been her companion in life, the thing she turns to, the thing she counts on, but before there was ballet, there was her brother.

He declines two of her FaceTime calls before he finally answers, trying to lean out of frame. His hair is dishevelled, which Alexis knows he hates, and he’s wearing a striped t-shirt that’s wrinkly from sleep.

“David!” she cries. “You look so cute this morning, you little sleepyhead!”

He flips her off. “Are you literally incapable of considering anyone else’s life, Alexis? It’s before ten a.m.”

She pouts. “I have rehearsal later, David. I have a job, you know.”

“Again,” he huffs. “You’re not the only one with a job and a schedule.”

She’s about to retort when what he’s just said to her registers. “You don’t have a job.”

He scowls at her and slides on a pair of dark-framed glasses that Alexis can admit, privately, are a good choice if he’s trying to look more professional. “Actually, as of two days ago, I do.”

“Doing what?” she asks, then, “Ohmygod, David. Being Mom’s ‘personal assistant’ doesn’t count.”

“Mm, fall off the CN Tower, Alexis. I’m opening my gallery.”

She gasps. “You _are_?”

“Yes. I got investors. Three of them. The total investment’s so small it’s almost like not having investors at all, but I also got an accountant. He’s so convinced we can get some arts grants that he’s not charging me until the funding comes through.”

Alexis puckers her lips thoughtfully. “Are you sure he’s, like, a _real_ accountant?”

“Yes,” David says, somewhat snappishly. “I’m _sure_. He wears mid-range denim.”

“Oh,” she says, and adds, more to herself than to him, “Like Twyla.”

“How _is_ Pollyanna?” he asks.

“Good,” Alexis says, smiling at the image of her brother on her phone’s screen. “She’s good.”

David’s eyes narrow suspiciously as he looks back at her. “Why did you say it like that?”

Alexis blinks. “Like what?”

“All… soft. Like you mean it. Like you’re not planning to pull a ballet Tonya Harding and break her knee.”

“Ew, David!” Alexis cries, pulling a downturned wrist in toward her chest. “That is so mean to even _say_!”

He’s quiet for a moment, examining her. Eventually, he says, “You like her. The small town ballerina.”

“She’s my roommate!” Alexis says, as if it’s some kind of counterpoint.

“Hmph,” David says. He still looks contemplative, even curious. “I thought you weren’t complaining about her because the walls are thin, or whatever. I didn’t think you were friends.”

“Well, we _are_ ,” Alexis says adamantly, flipping her hair behind one shoulder. “And personally, I _love_ this journey for us.”

The principal male dancer at the National Ballet is named Stavros. He has long blonde hair that he likes to leave down and a skintight dance wardrobe to accentuate his muscles, and when he walks through the building it’s evident that he waits for, and languishes in, the longing sighs and hushed gossip that follow in his wake.

Most of the corps de ballet, men and women alike, are set a little off-kilter when he’s close by, unable to hold their balances, stumbling out of pirouettes. Wendy will roll her eyes extravagantly and leave the studio, like she can’t possibly bear witness to such behaviour for another moment, and will return several minutes later smelling like cannabis, by which point the nervous excitement created by Stavros’ presence will have mostly worn off.

The company is gathered to mark the first act of La Sylphide when Alexis catches his attention. One moment, he’s leaning against the mirrors lazily; the next, he’s at her elbow, noting, “You’re new.”

She makes sure to take her time in turning toward him, so he doesn’t think he’s dazzled her. “I am,” she agrees.

“You know who I am,” he says, overconfident.

Alexis’ instinct, as he looks at her covetously, is to twirl a lock of her hair, because that’s what she does, when a man flirts with her - she flirts back. Her hand is already in the air when she remembers that her hair’s in a bun, so she rests it against the back of her neck instead. “You make it hard not to.”

“And yet,” he says, moving further into her space, his chest brushing her arm. “I hardly know anything about you. Beautiful girl like you must have a beautiful name.”

“Alexis.”

“I knew it,” he says, and smirks at her, seemingly waiting for her to swoon.

She supposes it’s a compliment, his attention. There are certainly other people in the room who would take it as such, and maybe once upon a time, Alexis would have, too. But she can see through Stavros, the way she failed to see through Sebastien until it was too late, and she doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want him, with the smarm he’s failing to disguise as charm, the way he approached her like he’s doing her some kind of favour.

She gives him a smile that feels stiff on her face and tries to figure out what to say next. The artistic director is still working something out with one of the ballet masters, so she can’t pretend she needs to hurry off to get to her starting position. She could try to ignore him, or make her disinterest clear, but she gets the sense that Stavros doesn’t get brushed off often, and that he wouldn’t exactly appreciate being turned down by a new member of the corps.

All of a sudden, there’s a body at Alexis’ other side, an arm looping through hers, the familiar marshmallow-y scent of Twyla’s bodywash in her nose, and a cheerful, “Hello!” ringing by her ear.

“Hey,” Alexis says, glancing over at her roommate. She wonders if Twyla knew she needed an ally, or if she just has a preternatural ability to show up when she’s needed. The bump of Twyla’s hip against hers serves as an answer.

Twyla looks at Stavros, wide-eyed and unflinching. “I’m Twyla,” she says.

“Hi,” Stavros says shortly, his mouth downturned in a slight frown.

Twyla tilts her head, all innocence. “Are you… a soloist?”

Confusion flashes over his face before offense sets in. “No,” he says. “No. I’m a principal dancer. In the first cast.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Twyla says, as if it’s news to her. “You probably have a lot to think about, then; don’t let us distract you!” And then she gives Stavros a sweet, sunny smile and steers Alexis toward the other side of the room.

“Thanks,” Alexis says under her breath, sort of stunned at how smoothly Twyla managed to infiltrate the conversation and extract her from it.

“’Course,” Twyla says.

Their arms stay linked together until they have to take their places.

Rehearsals ramp up in intensity. Alexis has been dancing about a trillion hours a week for years and years, training so hard that she even gave up on homeschool and didn’t quite finish twelfth grade, but nothing could fully prepare her for the demands of a national ballet company. She’s going through pointe shoes at a speed she never has before, and when she frees her toes at the end of each day she feels almost like she should apologize to them.

Twyla gives her a commiserating look as she gingerly removes a toe spacer. When they get home, she fills a basin with cool water and the contents of both the ice cube trays in their freezer. “Want to join?” she asks Alexis, wincing as she dips her toes in.

“Oh my god, really?” Alexis asks. When Twyla nods, Alexis joins her on the couch, removes the toe tape she left on for their trip home, and dunks her feet into the water. The coldness is sharp enough and _good_ enough that she murmurs, “Mmm,” as she lets her eyes fall shut, slumping back into the couch cushions. Twyla leans back, too, her shoulder warm against Alexis’.

She drifts to sleep in what feels like an instant. When she wakes up, the water is lukewarm and Twyla is snoring softly next to her. She grabs a throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa and lays it over Twyla, tucking it gently around Twyla’s shoulders and beneath her chin, before she eases herself upright. Tiptoeing across the floor with damp feet, Alexis locates her phone and orders dinner from their favourite Sri Lankan restaurant.

They have costume fittings the following Monday. Wardrobe for the first act consists of long tartan skirts, blousy white shirts, and vests in various earthy shades. It’s the costumes for the second act that have the girls in the corps excited: gauzy white dresses with long, romantic tutus, tulle sleeves that drop off their shoulders, little sets of fluttering wings sewn to the back, and crowns made of white flowers. It’s the dreamy kind of costume a little girl dreams of when she’s in her first ballet class, learning to point her toes properly. As the seamstress pins the bust of Alexis’ dress, she can’t help feeling like she’s finally, truly _made it._

Twyla appears behind her, waiting for her turn to be prodded and pinned, and Alexis’ heart starts doing something funny, flip-flopping around in her chest like she’s nervous, like it’s seconds before curtain, like she’s about to take her place beneath a spotlight. Twyla’s unaltered costume is too wide around her torso, and as she’s pulled things on and off, a few strands of her hair have escaped the hold of her hairspray, flyaways floating by her ears, but she still looks - she looks ethereal, like she really could be a sylph. Alexis feels, ridiculously, about as captivated as James, the character enchanted by their ballet’s titular figure in the first act.

“Here,” she says - or means to say; the word comes out of her mouth very softly, on an exhale. She reaches out a hand, and Twyla moves closer, a question in her eyes.

Alexis tucks Twyla’s flyaways back behind her ears, coaxing her hair into smoothness once more. “Oh, thanks,” Twyla breathes, flushing. She glances around like she’s worried someone’s going to identify her as an impostor and yank her out of the building, out of this dreamy, I-did-it moment. “Can you believe this?” she asks in an eager whisper.

The seamstress tsks at Alexis, who offers up an apologetic smile and drops her arms back to her sides, waiting for further instruction. Her heart still can’t seem to settle into a rhythm, its beats accelerating again.

“No,” she tells Twyla, who’s still looking at her, smile incandescent. “I can’t believe it.”

Two weeks out from opening night, Alexis decides she needs a break. She’s felt weird since the costume fittings, like she’s up on the box of one of her pointe shoes, her other leg positioned in passé, and she just can’t find her center, can’t tighten her abs and pull up her knees and just _balance_. She thinks Twyla might be feeling something similar - her roommate has looked particularly tired on recent mornings, like she’s not been sleeping well, and Alexis has been dabbing a bit of extra concealer beneath Twyla’s eyes in the locker room before their first class.

It’s got to be nerves, she figures. They’ve never done this before. They’ve never stepped onto a stage in front of an audience that assumes they’re professionals, dancers whose bodies are infallible.

She thinks they need to blow off steam, and she tells Twyla as much.

“Just a _couple_ hours,” she cajoles, in the face of Twyla’s expression, which is gently skeptical in a way that implies she’s preparing to say no. Alexis’ hands flutter in front of her, punctuating her points. “Just a couple hours to not think about ballet. We’ll be back in time to get enough sleep, I _promise_. And we’ll only have, like, one drink.”

“We _can’t_ drink,” Twyla points out. One corner of her mouth is curling upward; she’s softening to Alexis’ idea in spite of herself. “We’re eighteen.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Alexis tells her breezily. “I’m sure I have a fake you can use.”

Twyla’s expression shifts back into uncertainty. “What?” she asks, and then it’s another twenty minutes of persuasion, Alexis calmly assuring Twyla that she _totally_ looks like Angelica Bloomfield, born in Augusta, Maine, the ID Alexis used two years ago when she impulsively dyed her hair red.

(“I don’t _know_ anything about Maine,” Twyla says, her brow furrowed, with such sincerity that Alexis kind of wants to stroke her hair and shush her, like Twyla’s a skittish kitten.

“Nobody’s gonna ask, babe,” she says soothingly. She rubs her thumb across the creased skin on Twyla’s forehead, smoothing it out, and then boops her on the nose.

“Okay,” Twyla finally concedes, and Alexis cheers.

“We’re gonna have a _blast_ , Angelica,” she says with a wink, and hurries off to her closet.)

She selects dresses for them both and sits Twyla down at the kitchen table to do her makeup. They’re both skilled at stage makeup, of course, but Twyla doesn’t know all the tricks Alexis does for looking your best under the flashing lights at clubs and in dimly-lit bars.

Twyla’s very patient, sitting in her chair with her hands folded in her lap and her chin tipped up, submitting to Alexis’ brushes and sponges and fingers. Alexis gives her a smoky eye and a glossy pink lip, curls her hair and clips back one side with two slim, pearlized pins.

“There,” she says, sitting back to admire her handiwork. She grins, smacking her hand lightly against Twyla’s knee before she grabs a handheld mirror. “Twy, you’re a _smokeshow_!” she says delightedly, holding the mirror up.

“Wow.” Twyla touches a curled lock of her hair and leans toward the mirror to examine her eyeshadow. “You do this every time you go out?”

“Mmhm,” Alexis murmurs, keeping her lips together as she applies primer to her own face.

Twyla keeps her company while she finishes her makeup, and then they slip out of their athlesiure clothes and into the dresses Alexis chose for them both. She loans Twyla a black dress with silver sparkles - she’s not going to say the dress looks _better_ on Twyla than it does on her, but it definitely looks _at least_ as good.

“We kind of match,” Twyla says on a laugh, looking at the silver mini-dress Alexis picked for herself.

“Totally,” Alexis says happily, then hesitates. “Unless - I mean, I can change?”

“No,” Twyla says quickly. “No, no. That dress is so… glimmery. I’ll definitely be able to find you if I get lost.”

“Oh, ew, no,” Alexis says hurriedly. “You won’t get lost. We’ll stay together.”

“Okay,” Twyla breathes. “Good.”

“The whole time,” Alexis assures her, and to further emphasize the point, she wraps a hand around Twyla’s as she tugs her toward the front door.

Alexis intends to be true to her word and order them a single drink each (cosmos, because she thinks Twyla will like them), but Twyla stuns her by leaning across the bar and half-yelling a request for tequila shots to the bartender. Alexis hipchecks her and makes _OMG, what are you doing?_ eyes.

Twyla scrunches up her own eyes and gives her shoulder - bare and prettily highlighted thanks to Alexis’ expertise - a playful shrug. Her peal of laughter is soft and the music is loud, but somehow it still reaches Alexis’ ears. “You were right,” Twyla says. “We work really hard. We deserve to have some fun, too.”

Alexis clinks her shot glass against Twyla’s. “I _love_ this for you,” she says.

“To us!” Twyla responds. In the absence of overhead lighting, her eyes are dark, a green as deep as the leaves of a forest at night, but Alexis can still find flashes of their true emerald tone and their ever-present flickers of gold.

“Totally,” she says with a shimmy of her shoulders, and pours the liquor down her throat.

Twyla makes an adorable face in response to the taste of the tequila, her lips puckered. Alexis finds herself brushing her thumb across Twyla’s bottom lip, trying to ease away the burn she must be feeling in her mouth, the same way she’d eased the wrinkles off Twyla’s forehead earlier. Under her touch, Twyla stills, and her mouth relaxes.

Alexis gives her the smile she knows can make heads spin. She picks up their cosmos and presses one into Twyla’s hands. “Let’s dance,” she says, and Twyla nods eagerly back at her.

It is, after all, their favourite thing to do.

Twyla’s a great dancer. It isn’t a surprise, necessarily, but it _is_ a thrill. Some ballerinas find themselves tied to the meticulous delicacy of ballet, the formulaic positions, but that’s never been a struggle for Alexis, and apparently it isn’t one for Twyla, either. She told Alexis once that she almost never counts: once she knows choreography, she can feel it in the music, let the tempo and the melody guide her. The same is true on a club’s dancefloor. The bass beat seems to pulse through Twyla, finding its way into her hips, and as the DJ spins the lyrics of songs higher and tighter, the twirl of her hair follows along, her arms reaching upward.

They dance close together, ignoring the guys who hover nearby. Alexis gives a sharp, dirty look to a man who lays a hand on her hip, sets the spike of her heel on the floor close to his toes. Twyla’s hands find her elbows, pulling her in even closer. Alexis drapes her arms along Twyla’s shoulders and smiles, nodding easily in response to Twyla’s drawn expression, which clearly asks, _you okay?_

It feels gloriously, wonderfully satisfying to move in a way without demands, a way that’s determined only by Alexis’ own enjoyment, that isn’t followed by a correction from Wendy or by a demand of _once more!_ It’s heady and sweaty and free, her hands making their way to Twyla’s hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through her dress, the raised pattern of the sequins. Twyla’s arm circles her, a hand presses into her back, and their legs weave together - it’s not exactly grinding, but it’s not exactly _not_. Alexis’ mind drifts to the freckles scattered over Twyla’s thighs.

There’s another guy, the weight of his gaze on Twyla heavy enough that Alexis can feel it. She wiggles her eyebrows at Twyla. She can play wingwoman, if Twyla wants, and she can keep a lookout, make sure the guy’s on his best behaviour. 

But Twyla wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, hardly even glancing in the dude’s direction. “Let’s get more shots,” she says, stretching up onto her toes to put her mouth close to Alexis’ ear.

She assumes a faux-scandalized expression in response before she leans in, too, asking, “Who are you and what did you do with my roommate?”

Twyla’s laughter gets lost in her neck.

They take an Uber back to their apartment. Alexis isn’t drunk, but thanks to three shots and one cosmo, she’s tipsy enough to feel whiny about the fact that she’s hungry.

“Sir,” she says, to their driver, perched on the edge of the backseat. “Do you also do UberEats? Because if you did, I would love you forever. And I would like a taco.”

Twyla tugs her backward. “Put on your seatbelt,” she says gently. “I can make you something to eat when we get home.”

“Twy,” Alexis says, shuffling closer to her. “Like, I don’t want to ruin your plan, but we do _not_ have taco shells.”

“I can make you something else. How about… a grilled cheese sandwich?”

Alexis thinks it over for a moment and then decides, “Okay.” She allows Twyla to nudge her over toward the window, and adds, “Yeah, okay,” as Twyla reaches across her body to pull down her seatbelt.

Back at their place, heels discarded messily by the door, Alexis sits at the table and watches Twyla putter around the kitchen: setting a frying pan on a burner, buttering bread, getting the cheese out of the fridge. She realizes, so suddenly that it sort of jolts through her, how comfortable Twyla is in each of her actions, and what it means.

“You’ve taken care of yourself for a long time,” she says, softly. “Haven’t you?”

Twyla nods. There’s nothing on her face to suggest that Alexis’ question has made her uncomfortable. “I have.”

“And you take care of me, too. You take _good_ care of me. You don’t have to do that.” She wonders abruptly if she should not eat the grilled cheese out of principle - but it looks like it’s almost done and she really is hungry.

A half-smile tugs at Twyla’s lips, still pink but no longer shiny with gloss. “I like you, Alexis. You’re my friend. Friends take care of each other.”

Alexis nods. When she swallows, she discovers that there’s a lump in her throat. “You’re my friend, too, Twy,” she says. She has no idea the last time she said that and meant it. Maybe never. The thought makes her feel like she could cry, as does the thought of Twyla, shorter and smaller, navigating a kitchen to make her own meals.

“ _Hey_ ,” Twyla says, her concern overpowered by warmth. “Hey - don’t be sad, honey.” She slides the sandwich onto a plate, which she sets in front of Alexis. “Here.”

 _Honey_ , Alexis thinks. Such a pretty word, made all the sweeter in Twyla’s mouth. Her fingers twine around Twyla’s wrist and stay there for a moment, wanting to cling to its delicious sound. Twyla lifts her other hand and smoothes a few wisps of hair out of Alexis’ face. She doesn’t ask Alexis to let go, just stays and waits until she’s ready.

It’s raining on the Tuesday evening that the e-mail rolls into Alexis’ inbox. She’s letting her hair air dry after her shower, a heating pad against one of her shoulders, the sound of raindrops against the windowpane lulling her toward slumber. The only reason she bothers to force her drooping eyelids open when her phone chimes is because a cursory glance at the screen reveals that the e-mail’s from her mother.

She reaches for her phone, expecting that the message will contain flight details, the name of the hotel her parents are staying at, maybe even a list of restaurants they’d like to take her to, to celebrate. She’s halfway through contemplating if they’d care if she invited Twyla to come along when she realizes that the e-mail doesn’t say any of the things she thought it would.

Moira’s written that she’s simply jubilant over Alexis’ forthcoming debut with the National Ballet, but that there’s a charity gala of paramount importance scheduled for the same night as the ballet’s opening and she can’t fail to attend - her philanthropic responsibilities compel her. Apparently Johnny also needs to make an appearance at the gala, and he’s ‘bedeviled with meetings’ throughout the week.

 _Kisses, darling, and be sure to break your figurative appendages!_ her mother signs off. _We’ll be sure to put your upcoming productions in the calendar._

The words blur in front of Alexis, her eyes stinging. Her parents aren’t coming to opening night of her first _real_ ballet - not only that, but apparently they’ve decided that missing the novelty of opening night means they won’t be coming at all.

Fifteen years of her life. That’s how long she’s thrown every shred of herself into this, and somehow nothing’s changed. She still aches for her mother’s attention, lets her hopes climb higher and higher, and Moira still gives her a passive glance, the equivalent of _that’s nice, dear,_ and carries on with the people and things that actually interest her.

She wants to call Ronnie, or throw her phone out the window, or _scream_ , but the reality is that she’ll do what she always does, because she chose an art steeped in composure: she’ll ignore her mother, and her mother will ignore her back, and one day her father will call and put Alexis on speakerphone and her mother will also be in the room, and they’ll pretend the iciness between them was never there at all.

Fingers drum very lightly against her door, and Twyla says, “Hey, just saying goodni - ” The rest of the word falls away when Alexis looks up at her, and she frowns. “Lex…” she murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Alexis says quickly, trying to plaster on a smile even as a tear makes its way down her cheek.

Twyla gives her head a little shake, walking into the room and crawling onto the empty side of the bed. “Alexis,” she says gently.

“Just - ” Another tear escapes, so Alexis shuts her eyes. She presses the back of her hand briefly against her nose. “It’s just, um. My parents aren’t coming. To opening night.”

“Oh,” Twyla says sympathetically. “That’s - it’s okay. I know it’s not what you wanted, but you’ll be beautiful every night, I know you will. They’ll still see you dance, and they’ll be so proud of you.”

“No,” Alexis says, shaking her head. Her chest feels like it’s constricting. “No, they’re not coming at all. And they’re not - they’re not proud of me.” Twyla looks like she wants to protest, so Alexis gives her head another emphatic shake. “Ballet is the only thing that ever got my mom to notice me. To, like… care. But I guess - ” She blinks rapidly. “I guess there are limits to how much she can notice.”

Twyla’s hand comes to rest on her back, smoothing along Alexis’ spine comfortingly. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexis says with a shrug, like tears aren’t still rolling down her cheeks.

With a cluck of her tongue, Twyla pulls a pillow from behind her back and rests it in her lap. “Come here, honey,” she says, and Alexis lets herself just sort of fold over, her head landing on the pillow.

Twyla’s fingers thread into her hair. “It’s funny,” she says, her voice still soft. “Not haha-funny, but - it’s the opposite for me. I love my mom, but she’s not… easy. Ballet was the thing that got me away.”

“I’m sorry,” Alexis murmurs. She touches Twyla’s knee.

“Families can be hard,” Twyla says. “Really, really hard.” Wisely, she adds, “That’s why we have friends.”

Alexis sniffles, pressing her face into the pillow. Twyla keeps stroking her hair, steadily, in a way that helps alleviate Alexis’ hurt and rage, encourages them to seep away.

She falls asleep like that, with Twyla’s soft hands in her hair. She wakes up some time later with sore eyes in a pitch-dark room, her head still in Twyla’s lap. Slowly, she sits up. It must be the middle of the night; her body is still craving rest.

Twyla’s fallen asleep, too, slumped back against a couple throw pillows at an awkward angle. Alexis picks the pillow up from her lap and eases it behind her, using her other arm to lift up Twyla’s shoulders. Twyla stirs, murmuring, “Alexis….?”

“Shh,” Alexis murmurs back, pulling a blanket up over Twyla’s body. “Go back to sleep.” With an attentiveness that’s almost tender, she carefully removes the bobby pins and invisibobble from Twyla’s hair.

When she’s done, she shuffles down to lay her head on her pillow and tuck the blanket over herself, too. Twyla shifts, mumbling something sleepily, turning toward Alexis and tucking a hand beneath her cheek. Her thigh bumps against Alexis’ knee and stays there. Down at the end of the bed, their scarred feet brush and tangle together.

Alexis closes her tired eyes. Within minutes, she drifts back into a dreamless sleep, each of Twyla’s breaths skimming softly along her own mouth.

Dress rehearsals begin. Their white dresses for the second act are decently opaque, but you can never be sure what will or won’t be rendered transparent by stage lights, so Alexis plans to do what she always does and cover her tattoo. Without Ronnie or David or Klair around to pat body makeup on her lower back, she asks Twyla for help.

They see each other’s bodies in near-nakedness so much, changing in the locker room, moving from bathroom to bedroom wrapped in a towel, that Alexis doesn’t bother with false modesty, just stands in their living room in her panties and her adhesive bra cups with her back to her roommate.

Twyla touches her tattoo, seemingly without thought, tracing the shapes of the Cantonese words gingerly. When she realizes what she’s doing, she snatches her hand away, nearly gasping as she says, “Sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Alexis says, toying with the ends of her hair.

“What does it mean?” Twyla asks.

“Um.” Alexis bites her lip. “Peace?” she offers. “Peace is, um… precious?”

“Really?”

“No,” Alexis admits with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “It means _that’s hot_ in Cantonese. I know it’s a mistake. I got it when I was twelve.”

“When you were _twelve_?” Twyla repeats incredulously. Her fingers land back on Alexis’ skin, like the tattoo itself might tell her otherwise.

“Yeah. I did, like, a super short stint as a teen model. I got to travel, and I thought that’s what I wanted. But it turned out that I liked ballet more.”

“I’m glad,” Twyla says, beginning to dab makeup on top of the tattoo. “That you picked ballet. It would’ve been so sad if people didn’t get to see you dance.”

“Twy,” Alexis says warmly, shaking her head and letting her gaze fall to the floor. “You’re the nicest person.”

“I’m just telling the truth.” She pats Alexis’ lower back with a sponge, blending. “You know, I like it.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I mean it, Alexis. It’s like - it’s like a secret. A part of you, a time in your life, that’s not… that you don’t really talk about. And now you’ve told me.”

Alexis thinks of the patterns her eyes can trace between Twyla’s freckles, the shapes she finds that seem to reveal themselves only to her. “It wasn’t a great time in my life. I was making dumb choices.”

“No,” Twyla says, with startling vehemence. “No. You were a _kid_. You were figuring things out. And you were braver than I was when I was twelve; I would’ve been terrified to get a tattoo.”

Alexis is quiet for a few seconds before she manages to say, “Thanks, babe.”

Twyla’s knuckles brush Alexis’ hip, so lightly it almost doesn’t feel real. “Anytime.”

“I have to go,” David says, ten minutes into their weekend phone call.

“What?” Alexis demands, insulted. She pouts hard enough that she hopes her brother can hear it.

“I have lunch plans,” he says. She can imagine his hands moving, his annoyance at her annoyance.

“With who?” she asks, eager for news about David’s social life.

There’s a pause that persists for longer than it needs to before he says, “Patrick.”

“Your accountant?” She’s been stretched across her bed on her stomach, but now she sits up, feeling the need to pay closer attention to the conversation. “On a _Sunday_?”

“You’re not the only one who works hard, Alexis,” David says, more curtly than necessary.

“David. Lunch on a Sunday isn’t something you do with your accountant. It’s something you do with a friend. Ohmygod - ” She grabs a pillow and clutches it to her chest. “It’s something you do with a b - ”

“A business partner!” David cuts in. “Something you do with a business partner. I really do have to go. I’ll see you soon,” he adds; he’ll be at opening night, because David has always shown up for Alexis in ways their parents have failed to. “Ronnie and I got seats together.”

“Oh, _yay_ , David,” she says brightly, her curiosity momentarily forgotten. “Yay!”

“Okay, bye!”

“Wait!” she cries, her focus sharpening again. “What about Pa - ”

But he’s already hung up.

“Ugh,” she huffs, and texts him instead: _what sweater are you wearing??_

_I’m in a business meeting. Don’t make me block you._

_so it’s givenchy_ , she responds knowingly. _tell patrick i say hi!_

 _Tell Twyla I say hi,_ he shoots back.

Alexis scowls at her phone, teeth digging into her bottom lip, unsure why it sounds like his message is just as pointed as hers.

As the first performance of La Sylphide looms closer, Alexis feels keyed up, wound tightly. She tosses and turns in bed one night for nearly an hour before she flops onto her back with an agitated sigh.

“You need to chill out,” she mumbles to herself, but she thinks that what would really help is if she could get off.

She shimmies out of her silk pyjama pants and kicks them off the bed. She lets her legs fall open a bit and slides a hand down over her stomach, presses it against herself over her underwear. That simple contact, alone, has her sighing again, her hips shifting.

She teases herself with her fingers, planning to take her time, to build up to something blissful. But something about the pressure of her touch and the pace of her fingers against her clit is just right, and Alexis gasps into her quiet, empty room.

“ _Oh,_ ” she breathes, shutting her eyes and stifling a moan. She has snapshots of memories she likes to flip through in her mind when she’s by herself, a catalogue to explore until she finds just the right thing to help get here there, but she’s already close, hips pressing into her hand, fingers moving faster, and all she sees behind her eyelids is the sweet, pink edge of a mouth curved into a smile, a shoulder dappled with freckles, a strong foot sliding along her own calf.

“That’s so good,” she can’t help but whimper, just barely able to keep the words quiet, “Twy, that’s so good - ”

She comes so fast and so hard that it kind of stuns her, her body pulsing with pleasure. When she comes down from her high she stays still for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling in disbelief, her heart pounding.

Deliberately, definitively, she takes the moment she’s in and shoves it as far back as she can in her mind, simultaneously pulling all her nerves, her concerns about the state of her pointe shoes, and her worries about the slow, difficult développés in the second act, right to the front. She gives her head a tiny shake, as if to make sure that every thought stays exactly where she put it, and then gets up to change her underwear.

Two days before they open, Twyla trips during a run-through, causing quiet gasps to ripple across the stage. Sounding exasperated, the artistic director calls, “Walk it off!” and as far as Alexis can tell, Twyla does, slipping smoothly back into the choreography and executing the rest of the number without incident. She wishes she could catch Twyla’s eye, but their various positions on the stage don’t give her the opportunity.

Once they’ve reached the point at which Stavros is set to enter, they’re given a ten-minute break. Twyla is a quick, dainty blur of white as she hurries backstage. Without thinking, Alexis goes after her.

She follows Twyla down the skinny hallway between dressing rooms and watches as she pushes open a heavy door, disappearing into a stairwell. Alexis hovers for a few seconds, so Twyla can have a moment to sob by herself, if she needs it, then nudges the door open, peeking beyond it.

Twyla’s sitting on the stairs, shoulders hunched inward, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Twy,” Alexis says, with compassion, smoothing her tutu against the back of her legs as she takes a seat next to Twyla. “Babe, it’s okay. People trip all the time, it can happen to _anyone_. It’s not like it’s your fault.” When Twyla’s only response is a shaky inhale, Alexis makes a sympathetic sound and wraps both arms around her. “It’s not a big deal. It’s okay.”

From inside her embrace, Twyla murmurs, “I’m just - I’m just stressed, and maybe a little distracted. There’s this whole thing going on with my cousin’s boyfriend’s husband, and I… I hate getting pulled into stuff from home, but it’s - ” She sighs heavily. “It’s my family.”

Alexis rubs her shoulder. “Somebody very smart and wonderful,” she says, “told me that families can be hard. And she was right. They can be really, really hard.”

Twyla leans into her, letting Alexis bear some of her weight, some of her sadness. “It’s not just that,” she says in a small voice. “I keep thinking… I’m scared I’m not good enough to be here. I’m scared they made a mistake, letting me in, and any minute now they’re going to figure it out. I didn’t have the kind of training you had - ”

“Twy,” Alexis tsks. She releases Twyla from her hold and sets her palms on Twyla’s cheeks, looking right into her eyes. “You’re the _best_ dancer in this company. You’re better than me. You’re better than Olivia,” she says, referring to the first principal dancer who dances the part of the sylph. 

With a watery laugh and half an eye roll, Twyla protests, “I am not.”

“Maybe not yet,” Alexis concedes. “But you will be. I _know_ it. You have to believe in yourself, okay? Because you’re so good. I knew it when I saw you dance at YAGP. They didn’t make a mistake, offering you a spot here. They made a really smart choice.”

Twyla makes an effort at a smile. “Thank you, Alexis.”

“There’s not anything to thank me for, babe. I’m just telling you _facts_.” She’s pleased to see Twyla’s smile grow more genuine, and she drops her hands from Twyla’s cheeks, flicking her wrists as she suggests, “Let’s go out after this. _Not_ late,” she adds quickly, heading off any protests, “and not for drinks. Just for an hour or two. Just to remember there’s more to the world than ballet.”

For a moment, Twyla looks doubtful. Slowly, she says, “We have to be home by 10:30.”

“Hunny p,” Alexis promises, nodding vigorously.

Twyla breathes a laugh. “Okay,” she says. “Yeah.”

Alexis reaches out and wraps her up in another hug. Twyla’s body feels relaxed against hers, her arms folded solidly across Alexis’ back. Alexis would rest her chin against Twyla’s shoulder and be content to stay there for a while, but she doesn’t want to risk getting her makeup on Twyla’s costume.

She pulls away with reluctance, and it seems like Twyla does, too; they linger in each other’s space for longer than they need to. There’s a beat when their mouths are so close, close enough that Alexis can smell the raspberry waxiness of Twyla’s Burt’s Bees lip balm. Her eyes settle on Twyla’s mouth and then fly upward. Their gazes clash, both of them startled.

Then Alexis encourages her mouth into a shape akin to a smile, and Twyla smiles back. They get up from the stairs. As they step back into the hall, Alexis’ fingers brush Twyla’s. She hesitates only for an instant before she takes Twyla’s hand in her own and squeezes, trying to impart confidence.

Twyla squeezes back, and they retrace their steps to the stage with palms pressed together and Twyla’s thumb rubbing absently across the back of Alexis’ hand.

When rehearsal ends, they go to Sneaky Dee’s and devour two plates of vegan nachos. Alexis tells Twyla how she and David have always fought about olives and what they belong on, and the time they both attempted to seduce a waiter to persuade him to eliminate the olives from their pizza order (David) or add extra (Alexis). When Twyla laughs, a pure, authentic spark of joy, something loosens in Alexis’ chest, fills her throat with pride over the part she played in drawing out that sound.

They get home just before 10:30. Alexis begins stripping out of her clothes on her way to her room, and changes into terrycloth shorts and a camisole to sleep in. She makes a quick trip to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and then returns to start pulling back the blankets on her unmade bed.

She doesn’t climb under the covers right away, standing still instead and studying her mattress. She makes the impulsive decision to pick up a pillow and head back into the hallway. It made her feel so comforted, the night that she was sad, to have Twyla in her bed. Maybe Twyla could use that same comfort.

She taps on Twyla’s door, and when Twyla calls, “Come in!” she steps into the room with her pillow tucked under one arm and a strange, fluttering feeling at the base of her throat.

Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears - timid, almost - when she asks, “Room for one more?”

Twyla smiles from where she’s tucked under her pink bedspread, shifting over to make room. “Yeah, of course.”

Alexis crawls in next to her. The sheets smell like laundry detergent and the coconut oil Twyla uses to remove her makeup.

Toes brushing along Alexis’ anklebone, Twyla says, “Have sweet dreams, Lex.”

She touches the end of one of the braids Twyla’s weaved her hair into for the night. “I will,” she says quietly.

And she does.

Opening night is all the things Alexis hoped it would be. From the moment before curtain when Twyla’s fingers squeeze hers before she darts off to the other side of the stage for her entrance, through the first act in her tartan skirt to the second act in her whimsical dress, through every pas de bourrée, every sissonne, and every chaȋné turn, she feels lit up from the inside out. When they take their bows for the audience, her proper, closed-lip ballerina smile gives way to an unstoppable grin.

Backstage, she hugs Twyla with such force that Twyla’s feet lift briefly off the ground. They’re both giggling in the same bubbly way they were after their first day at the company, exhausted and invigorated all at once. “We did it!” Alexis says.

Twyla’s hands curl around Alexis’ upper arms. “Wait here,” she says, speaking loudly to be heard over everyone else’s celebratory exclamations. “Okay? Stay backstage.”

Alexis’ brows draw together in confusion, but she nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Twyla echoes. She rises up en pointe and kisses Alexis’ cheek before she darts off, away from the dressing rooms.

While she’s gone, Alexis sits down on the floor in the midst of the other dancers, her back against a wall so that she’s as out-of-the-way as possible, and undoes the ribbons on her pointe shoes, struggling briefly to get the secure knots she tied undone. She eases the shoes off her feet, removes her toe pads, takes out her toe spacers, peels off her toe tape, and then gives her toes a little wiggle, letting them enjoy their freedom. She sets her pointe shoes to the side, and, instead of getting up, she just sits where she is, tutu puffed out on either side of her body, flower crown still pinned in her hair, skin warm from exertion, and lets herself enjoy the moment, the feeling that she’s earned.

Twyla re-emerges with a bouquet of pink tulips in her hands, the paper wrapped around their stems tied with a thick, white ribbon. Alexis drops her jaw dramatically as Twyla takes a seat next to her on the floor. “Twy!” she exclaims, in a tone of voice meant to say, _get it, girl!_ “Who are those from?”

Twyla stares at Alexis for an instant, like her words aren’t computing, and then says, “Oh! No,” and holds out the bouquet. “They’re for you.”

Alexis’ put-on astonishment turns real as she lifts her hands, instinctively, to take the flowers. “What - for me?”

“Yeah.” Twyla smiles, her eyes crinkling at their corners, and Alexis notices that the glue holding the falsies to the lashline of Twyla’s left eye seems to be losing its staying power. “You told me your dad always gets you roses, and since your parents couldn’t make it, I thought… I still wanted you to have flowers. But - ” She scrunches up her nose. “Roses are a little expensive, so I thought tulips might be the next best thing… ”

“No,” Alexis says hastily. “I mean, yeah, roses totally are expensive, but I also mean - I don’t even _like_ roses that much, honestly? And like… I _love_ these, Twy. They’re so beautiful. I’m going to put them on my windowsill so they get lots of sun. And maybe I could even buy them that powder that’s, like, food for your flowers or whatever? Because nutrition is so importa - ”

She’s cut off by Twyla’s arms encircling her neck in a hug, and she breathes a sigh in response, partially in contentment, and partially in relief, because she was starting to ramble. “I’m trying to say thank you, I guess,” she murmurs by Twyla’s ear, returning the hug.

“You’re welcome,” Twyla says. Her voice sounds a little thick. “I’m glad I know you, Lex.”

Alexis squeezes her even harder. She can feel Twyla’s heartbeat against her own chest. “I’m glad I know you, too.”

David and Ronnie are waiting for her in the lobby. She lets out a small shriek when she sees them and rushes over; she can’t decide who to hug first, so she flings an arm around each of them, despite the fact that she’s still holding the bouquet Twyla gave her and David’s carefully cradling an arrangement of calla lilies.

“You’re here!” she squeals as they both make half-hearted sounds of protest at the intensity of her hug. “I missed you.”

“You’re squishing _everything_ ,” her brother says, which is David-speak for _I missed you, too._ He nudges her back gently, and she goes, but not without kissing his cheek first.

Turning to Ronnie, she swallows anxiously and asks, “So… what did you think?”

“It was good,” Ronnie says, in her reticent way, but she’s smiling. “You were lovely.”

“Yeah?” Alexis asks, beaming.

“Mmhm. Some of the best piqué turns on that stage.”

“Thank you, Ronnie.” She reaches out and grabs one Ronnie’s hands with her own. “I’m really glad you came.”

Begrudging fondness in her eyes, Ronnie says, “Wouldn’t’ve missed it for the world, princess.”

David allows them a few seconds to smile at each other, and then clears his throat. “Um, I brought you these?” he says, lifting up the bouquet in his hands pointedly. “But you appear to already have flowers. Who are those from?”

“Oh, from Twyla,” Alexis says. “But I bet I totally have two vases, David; it’s not a big deal.”

About seventeen different expressions pass over his face in quick succession, before he seems to school his features into neutrality. “From your roommate Twyla,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Alexis says, looking around to see if Twyla’s nearby so that she can introduce all her favourite people - and luckily, she is, chatting with another member of the corps de ballet. “Twy!” she calls, lifting a hand to get Twyla’s attention. When Twyla turns in her direction, she uses that lifted hand to beckon her over. As she turns back toward Ronnie and David, she thinks she catches them exchanging some sort of meaningful look.

“So, this is my roommate,” Alexis chirps as Twyla joins them. She looks a little apprehensive, which Alexis can’t help but find incredibly endearing. She slips her arm around Twyla’s waist, a silent signal that Twyla doesn’t need to worry; David might look pretentious and Ronnie might look hard to impress, but they’re all bark - for the most part, anyway. “Twy, this is my brother David, and my teacher-slash-mentor Ronnie Lee.”

As Twyla’s arm slides around Alexis in turn, Ronnie extends a hand. “Nice to put a face to the name, Twyla. You’ve got great musicality.”

“Oh, thank you!” Twyla says, flustered, as she gives Ronnie’s hand a shake. “It’s really nice to meet you, too!” She offers her hand to David, too, but he doesn’t see it right away, apparently; he’s too busy looking at Alexis with narrowed eyes. Ronnie has to elbow him to snap him out of it, and Alexis scowls, baffled by his bizarre behaviour.

“It is _so_ nice to meet you, Twyla,” he says, finally shaking her hand. “Every brother looks forward to meeting his sister’s _roommate_.”

Twyla, being Twyla, takes his weird comment in stride and just smiles at him, but Alexis says, “What is your _issue_ , David?”

Before he can answer, Twyla gives Alexis’ hip a squeeze that might mean _calm down_ or _don’t worry about it_ and says, “It’s so great that you’re both here to see Alexis! I’m sorry, but my great-aunt seems to think she’s here somewhere, and I just have to figure out if she actually is or not, so - ” She glances at Alexis. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Alexis says, nodding. “Text me if you need help, okay?”

“Oh, I won’t,” Twyla says breezily. “She does this all the time.” She offers Ronnie and David a brief wave, and then cuts a path back into the crowd.

When Alexis turns back to David and Ronnie, her brother’s shoulders are shaking, like he’s trying and failing to keep from laughing. He has a hand pressed over his mouth. Ronnie, for her part, is smiling her full-on, Alexis-just-nailed-a-variation smile.

Bewildered, she asks them, “What? What is it?”

A snort of laughter escapes from David. “Holy shit,” he says, simply, like that’s an answer to Alexis’ question, which it most definitely is _not_. He looks at Ronnie and repeats, “Holy shit.”

“ _What?_ ” Alexis asks again, more insistently this time, but once again, neither of them makes the slightest effort to give her an answer. Instead, they flank her, each of them hooking an arm into the crook of one of hers, and steer her toward the doors that lead outside, redirecting the conversation into a debate regarding where they should go for dinner.

After dinner, she returns with David and Ronnie to their hotel. Outside her room, Ronnie touches Alexis’ arms and appears to study her for a moment. “This was a good choice for you,” she says. “You’re happy here?”

Alexis nods and confirms, “I’m happy here.”

Ronnie nods, too, pleased with her answer, and gives Alexis a hug. “Keep working hard.”

“I will.” Alexis sighs as they pull apart; one evening doesn’t feel like enough time together, not after all the days and months and years she’s spent in Ronnie’s company. “I’m going to come home for the holidays. I’ll see you then, right?”

“You know where to find me. And you can always call. You know that.”

“Mm, I do,” Alexis agrees warmly. “Love you!” she adds as the door to Ronnie’s room swings shut, and David takes her elbow, guiding her down the hall toward his own room.

They both had dessert at dinner, but they order room service anyway: two pieces of tiramisu that they eat sitting on the bed. They talk enough that there’s not too much to catch up on: Alexis tells David stories of backstage mishaps - costumes accidentally exchanged, a lone pointe shoe’s disappearing act, panic over what everyone thought was a bloodstain but was actually the result of an exploded tube of liquid blush - and he gives her the latest updates on his gallery, which now has an official date for a ‘soft opening.’

(“A what?” Alexis asks, fork lifted halfway to her mouth.

“A soft opening. An - ” David does a kind of wiggle with his body, sliding his arms through the air, “easing in. You know. With an exclusive guest list.”

“David.” She reaches across the bed to touch his knee. “Did you make that up?”

“No,” he huffs. “A soft opening is a very common - you know what, I’m not explaining this again. I’m following Gwyneth’s lead.”)

“I’ll try my hardest to get home,” she promises him. “I _knew_ you could do it, David.”

There’s a softness to his smile that makes her heart feel fuzzy. “I guess you did.”

“I can’t wait to see your gallery. And I _really_ can’t wait to meet Patrick.”

Alexis might be imagining it, but she’s ninety-nine percent sure David is blushing, just the tiniest amount, high on his cheeks. “It’s late,” he says, a very purposeful change of subject. “Don’t you have another show tomorrow? You should go to sleep.”

“Please, David,” she says, licking the last of her tiramisu off the tines of her fork. “You know that I can get through a full day as long as I get a solid two hours.”

“Are you staying here, or?”

Months ago the answer would’ve been an obvious yes; she would’ve used David’s cleanser and serum and moisturizer and slept in one of his sweaters. Now, however, it doesn’t feel right to leave Twyla alone, especially not after today, when they crushed their first professional performance. “No,” she says. “I’ll go home.”

“Okay. Let’s call you a cab.” David’s eyes roam over her face for a moment. “Unless… there’s something you want to talk to me about.”

“Um.” Alexis glances around the room, as if she’ll find a clue to show her what he’s expecting her to say. “No?”

He nods slowly before he picks up their plates, setting them back on the tray. “Okay.”

“David…” she says as she watches him. “Thank you for coming.”

He shrugs, and says everything in the tone of someone who’s saying nothing at all: “Always, Allie.”

At her apartment, she goes to Twyla’s room and lightly pokes the nearly-closed door open. Twyla’s in bed, drowsy-eyed but not yet asleep, and she says, “Hey,” through a yawn.

“Hey.” Alexis leans against the doorjamb. “I just wanted to let you know I’m back. And say goodnight.” Her hands are moving around at chest-level like they’re unsure of where they’re supposed to be, so she clasps them to keep them still. “Did you find your aunt?”

“Yeah. She’s at home in Elm Valley. Two of my cousins came tonight, though, so that was nice.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet them.”

Twyla’s smile is easy and serene. “Next time,” she says.

Alexis smiles back. “Yeah.”

She hovers in the doorway for a minute, like part of her is expecting Twyla to invite her in, to pull back the blankets and ask her to stay. She straightens up, trying to brush away the thought. “See you in the morning, Twy.”

“Bright and early,” Twyla agrees. “Goodnight, Lex.”

“Goodnight,” Alexis whispers back. She closes Twyla’s door and presses her forehead against the wood for a few seconds, fighting off a sense of disappointment that feels totally unfounded.

The rest of the run of La Sylphide goes off without a hitch. The _Toronto Star_ gives the ballet a good review. On a couple nights, the audience rises to its feet in standing ovations. Alexis works hard in class every morning, and at showtime her muscles are primed to perform. She and Twyla buy a blender and start throwing about a pound of spinach and an equal amount of protein powder into it every morning.

The mood after the last show is exultant. Instead of sliding into sweatpants and hoodies, everyone puts on nicer clothes, slacks and button-downs and dresses. There are flutes of champagne and a plan made to go to a bar - five members of the corps de ballet are still below the legal drinking age, but Alexis suspects the rest of the company, and even their ballet masters and mistresses, would turn a blind eye if she and Twyla used their fake IDs and came along. But as they stand in the lobby, emptied of the public and full of proud dancers, Twyla’s body tips into Alexis’, pressing into her side. Her hand slips into Alexis’, a slow threading of fingers.

Her gaze still directed toward the rest of the room, Twyla proposes, softly, “Let’s go home?”

“Yeah,” Alexis agrees immediately, pleased by the suggestion for more reasons than one. Everyone is caught up in happy bunches of conversation; it’s easy to slip out on their own and make their way to the streetcar stop. Twyla doesn’t let go of her hand, not even when they cram onto the car with other late-evening riders.

The first reason Alexis was glad to leave early is evident as soon as Twyla unlocks the door: six different bouquets are set at various points throughout the kitchen and living room. Alexis isn’t exactly well-versed in plant care, but she did have some minor concerns about how the flowers would fare if they didn’t get back until closer to dawn.

Twyla gasps at the sight, her eyes widening and her keychain dropping to the floor. She looks at Alexis with those wide, green eyes, the tips of her fingers pressed to her mouth.

Alexis feels so jittery that she’s almost nauseated. All the auditions she’s ever done, and she’s never been this nervous in her life. She bends to pick up Twyla’s keys and fiddles with them as she asks, “D’you like them? I realized I don’t know your favourite flower, so I thought I’d… cover my bases.”

“ _Alexis_ ,” Twyla breathes, in a soft little voice that Alexis wants to hold in her hands, press to her heart. “How did you…”

“Oh, right,” Alexis says. “Yeah. We should actually maybe get our locks changed? Because I had to give my key to this guy so that he could deliver these, and he was nice but also kind of sketchy?” She gives her shoulders a displeased shimmy. “But the point - the important thing is that I - I really wanted you to know that I’m glad to know you, too. Really, really glad. I’m proud of you, but I’m also just… I’m happy you ended up here, where I ended up, and that we got matched as roommates and that…” It occurs to Alexis that the door is still open behind them, so she closes it, giving herself a chance to find her courage.

Turning to face Twyla, she continues, “I think you’re my best friend. And that’s… that’s something I’m really, really happy about, too. But also - also I - ” She gulps in a breath. “Also, Twy, I want to kiss you.” She remembers Twyla on their very first day in this apartment, asking, _can I hug you?_ She returns the question now, changing one single, crucial word, “Can I kiss you?”

Twyla’s smile is tucked into her cheeks. “Yes,” she says. A giggle slips out of her mouth before she adds, “ _Please._ ”

Alexis steps out of her heels. She sets a hand lightly on Twyla’s shoulder, skims it up her neck and watches, feeling electrified, as Twyla’s lashes flutter. She puts her hand on Twyla’s cheek and feels one of Twyla’s hands, tentative but confident, fitting itself against the curve of her hip.

And then they’re kissing.

Twyla’s lips are soft against Alexis’. She tastes like her raspberry lip balm, like Alexis knew she would, and also like something else, something distinct to herself, like the air in the summer on a coastline, fresh and free and frolicking. Her mouth opens against Alexis’, hot and eager, and the keys Alexis is holding on to fall, once more, to the floor.

They end up in Twyla’s bedroom, where their attempts to get each other naked are something of a convoluted disaster; in addition to their strappy cocktail dresses, they’re both still wearing body tights, and it feels to Alexis like she has to work hard to get Twyla’s skin under her hands. They laugh into each other’s mouths, elbows catching in armholes, toes catching on nylon.

Their flustered giggles fade away when Twyla’s on her back on her polka-dotted sheets, Alexis having freed her second foot from her tights. Her eyes are both serious and anticipating, her fingers reaching for any part of Alexis she can touch: shoulder, hip, the side of a breast. Alexis’ breath catches in her throat, and she puts her mouth - at _last_ \- on Twyla’s skin, tracing along freckles with the tip of her tongue, feeling Twyla’s ab muscles tense, her pulse jump in her neck, the gasp of a needy sound escape her throat when Alexis lets her teasing tongue circle a nipple.

She kisses the valley between Twyla’s breasts, and flicks her gaze upward, meeting Twyla’s eyes. She’s already kneeling with one leg between both of Twyla’s; it’s the easiest thing to trail kisses downward, all the way to Twyla’s belly button, where she waits, eyes still on Twyla’s, seeking an answer.

Twyla’s chest heaves a little and her chin jerks downward in a nod. Alexis kisses Twyla’s hip and murmurs into her skin, “What do you like?” She’s never done this before. She can make some educated guesses based on her own preferences, but she’s not going to turn down Twyla’s guidance.

“I don’t know,” is Twyla’s quiet response. When Alexis’ eyes collide with hers again, sharply, she gives her shoulders a small shrug. “No one’s ever…”

Alexis cannot even begin to contemplate why anyone would willingly forgo what she’s about to have. She just kisses Twyla’s hip again and says, “Tell me, okay? Talk to me.”

Twyla makes an affirmative noise, and Alexis settles between her thighs. She puts her mouth on Twyla with careful, experimental eagerness, starting with long strokes of her tongue, noting when Twyla’s hips jerk up into her mouth. Twyla's hand settles on top of her head for a moment before slipping around to the back of her skull, her fingers kneading Alexis’ scalp, sore from daily buns, and her neck muscles - and it’s so _Twyla_ , to want to take care of Alexis while Alexis is taking care of her. Alexis loves her for it, but she also relishes it when Twyla says, “Yeah, _yes_ , like that,” and her hand presses against Alexis’ head, her touch growing a little selfish, a little desperate, as she chases her orgasm.

She comes against Alexis’ tongue, fingers clenched in Alexis’ hair, crying out softly, a sound Alexis will replay over and over again in her mind. There is a sharpness to the way Twyla tastes that makes Alexis moan, deep and quiet in her throat. It’s like all things Twyla - like her smiles, like the strength in her limbs, like the constellations in her freckles, like the roughness in her voice when she’s tired. Now that Alexis knows it, she doesn’t know how to do anything but want it.

When Twyla catches her breath, she pulls Alexis’ body up over hers and kisses her, both her hands sinking into Alexis’ hair, a _thank you_ breathed into her mouth.

“You’re so beautiful, Twy,” Alexis murmurs back. “Not just when you dance. In everything. All the time.”

“God, so are you.” Twyla’s fingers splay along Alexis’ ribs before her hands come up to cup her breasts. Her thumbs flick over Alexis’ nipples, and then all of a sudden she’s sitting up so Alexis is too, and Twyla maneuvers their bodies so Alexis is on her back on the bed and Twyla’s stretched out next to her. Alexis practically mewls when Twyla’s nimble fingers pinch a nipple. “I liked it when you slept here,” Twyla says, her voice soft. “I liked waking up first, while you were still asleep. I almost forgot I was supposed to do anything besides look at you.”

Her hand finds its way between Alexis’ legs. “What do _you_ like, Lex?” she asks.

Alexis opts to show rather than tell, her own hand joining Twyla’s, circling her clit the way she likes. Twyla’s breathing grows shallow alongside her own and she groans when Alexis says, desperately, “Inside me?”

Twyla says, “Yes,” against her ear. She fucks Alexis with two fingers, and it takes almost no time at all for the muscles in Alexis’ thighs, already worn out from a day of dancing, to start trembling violently as she gets close to the edge. She turns her face into Twyla’s shoulder when she comes, her teeth biting lightly into Twyla’s skin. Twyla’s mouth skims over her cheek and Alexis gasps out her name.

Half an hour later finds them back in Twyla’s bed, cleaned up and bare-faced, their bodies pressed close together, tired and utterly content. Their fingers tangle and untangle in the air, fingertips stroking along knuckles, palms sliding together, a dance with no defined choreography, yet one that they both seem to know. Alexis unlaces their fingers and strokes hers, lightly as can be, along Twyla’s forearm, the mosaic of freckles dusted over her skin.

“You remind me of the sky,” she says languidly.

Smile obvious despite being half-hidden in her pillow, Twyla combs her own fingers through Alexis’ loose hair. “You remind me of the sun.” She tucks Alexis’ hair behind her ear with such a slow, tender touch that Alexis almost shivers. “Guess we go together,” she says.

It should feel cheesy, Alexis thinks. It should make her wrinkle her nose. She should deny the dreamy sentimentality of it all. She should want to sleep in her own bed, she should crave her own space. She should retreat to self-sufficiency, the state she’s taught herself to live in.

But she neither feels nor wants any of those things. With Twyla’s fingers on her jaw, with Twyla’s eyes on her face, with the mix of comfort and exhilaration that Twyla always makes her feel glossed over her skin, sinking into her bones, filling her mouth, Alexis can only smile, so widely that her cheeks ache, and all she can say, with heartfelt assuredness, is, “I guess we do.”

fin.


End file.
